


An Awfully Long Time

by mainecoon76



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, And Life-Threatening Situations, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Dealing with issues, F/M, Family, Light Angst, M/M, POV Female Character, Post-DOFP, Romance, movieverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again." - "Never is an awfully long time." (J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan)</i>
</p>
<p>During her post-DoFP investigations against Trask's henchmen, Mystique discovers an imminent threat to one of the few people she cares deeply about. She returns to the mansion to warn Charles and Hank, but what began as a short and painful visit soon turns into a dangerous adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lexib](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexib/gifts).



> Dear recipient, this was originally supposed to fit your prompt "Hank finds and confronts Raven post-DoFP". The story went sideways, but there is still a confrontation of sorts happening between them. Also, it contains Erik lurking outside a building with Charles inside, so... if you're feeling generous, you could count that as two half-filled prompts? :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and happy Secret Mutant season!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any version of the X- Men, nor the Peter Pan quote. No profit is made from this work.
> 
> Betaed by and discussed with mrs_sweetpeach, AKA Haven on AO3. Thanks again for your trouble and accompanying me into yet another fandom!

The corridor is empty save for one lone security guard near the glass door. He is a young man, not very experienced, and he gives his superior a mildly surprised glance.

"Forgot something, sir?"

"Just a few notes I've been meaning to take home," is the curt reply, and the guard nods as he steps aside. A few yards down the corridor bends around a corner, and the man who was just allowed in relaxes slightly, though he does not cease in his watchful gaze to make sure of his surroundings. The lock of the single office door poses a slight difficulty, but not an insurmountable one for a skilled lock pick. The man slides inside with the easy grace of a professional. He knows the most common hiding-places, the tricks and methods of camouflage, and how to effectively search a location without giving away that anyone was there. He also knows that he does not have much time. 

It does not take him long to retrieve a thick folder from a secret compartment in the wall behind a painting. The painting shows picturesque scenery of mountains and a lake at sunset, which suggests more sentiment than the rightful owner of the office usually shows. But the intruder does not have the patience for art; instead he is flipping through the pages with casual efficiency. Then he freezes, and for just one second his eyes change from pale grey to an eerie shade of yellow.

The page he is holding shows grainy photographs of a hairy blue creature in human clothing, suspended in the air by poles of bent metal, bestial fangs bared in a roar. The photograph is part of a file, neatly typed on cheap white paper, name, address, CV, nature of mutation, just like the others. The name is highlighted in pale green.

_Dr. Henry McCoy, Residence: 1407 Greymalkin Lane, Salem Center, Westchester, NY. Preliminary assessment: Highly useful._

 

The coffee in her cup has long gone cold. Mystique is not sure how much time has passed since her return, how long since she ordered the beverage from the room service and settled on the squishy white settee that overlooks the skyline of Vancouver. Her mind is still reeling from the impact of her recent findings, not quite as graphic as the autopsy reports at Trask Industries, perhaps, but terrifying in their vagueness and possibly just as monstrous. She has been tracking Stryker ever since she abandoned her original mission to kill Bolivar Trask, suspicious of his intentions and of the fact that he showed up in Trask's entourage more often than not; a henchman, perhaps, or one with a grander mission himself. Now she knows it is the latter, and she must find out what that mission entails.

It would be of prime importance for her to stay and continue her work. No disappearances have been reported since the White House incident, but she is reasonably sure that it is just a matter of time.

Which leads to the problem of her personal involvement.

It is not, she tells herself sternly, only for her own sentimental reasons if she considers interrupting her mission now. It is a strange feeling after she has been working on her own for so long, and a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Erik tells her that the cause must not be abandoned, not even to prevent great personal sacrifices.

Well. She has seen how far, exactly, he is willing to go. And she has seen where he means to take his cause. It was only her own common sense - granted, with a bit of prodding from her insufferable smart-arse brother - that prevented the war he is trying to bring down on all of them.

Speaking of which…

She eyes the newspaper on the coffee table with a weary gaze. There is a ring of coffee right on the photograph of Erik's face. He looks faintly ridiculous with those brown stains splattered over his face and helmet. There is not much else she can do to make his recent escapades a laughing matter.

Three political murders in three weeks. Yesterday Dr. Trask, her own nemesis for so long, was found dead in his prison cell with an iron rod around his throat. She does not grieve the deed but she loathes its implications.

He has not yet declared responsibility for the murders, but she is sure that he will. He made it quite clear that he wants his war. It's not like Erik to be subtle about it.

Bloody megalomaniac.

In a rush of righteous anger she rises from her seat and begins to pack her bags. She will take an early flight tomorrow.

 

She appears as a workman when she walks down the graveled driveway that leads up to the mansion. It will hardly attract attention, she reasons, for such a large building as this will be in need of repairs from time to time, even though the state of the gardens visible from the path suggests years of neglect. They used to be impeccable in those long-bygone days of her childhood, the days she does her utmost not to dwell on, especially not the happy moments she spent with Charles digging for treasures behind Rhododendron bushes or quiet summer evenings when they hid from the world and played chess by the pool. She does not quite remember how they looked like in the few short weeks before Cuba. Those weeks had been so full of excitement and life-altering important events that she never quite paid attention to the state of her old home.

Now the hedges are growing onto the path and the lawn is in desperate need of mowing, and the large fountain in the front yard is empty and overgrown with moss.

She never came near the house again after that fateful day she left with Erik, not even when they told her that Charles would never walk again, not once in those long years of her lonely battle while she justified her cause and tried not to think of him. She knew that Hank was taking care of him, which was another reason to avoid that line of thought entirely because she did not want to think of Hank, either.

The truth is that she is not sure if, had she returned, she would ever have been able to leave again. 

She shifts to her blue form as she knocks, and it is mere moments before the door creaks open. Of course it is. Charles probably knew she was coming ever since she passed the front gate, and it is just a nod to her sensibilities that he even waited until she had knocked.

It is Hank who opens the door, Hank in his human form, with a careful and not-quite-genuine smile plastered on his face. Charles is waiting behind him in the hallway, and she knows that he feels all the emotions that are slamming into her now as she sees him like this for the first time.

_Guilt, anger, sadness, love. More guilt, so much that it nearly stifles her, and then fury at herself and him and Erik and fate itself for doing this to him._

She thought she had come to terms with the fact that her brilliant brother is bound to a wheelchair. Apparently she was wrong.

She feels his soothing touch against her mind, gentle enough not to be intrusive, just a faint presence she remembers like a lost limb that was screaming in phantom pain for years after she left. Charles smiles, though his eyes do not sparkle the way they used to and there are lines on his face she does not remember. "Welcome home, Raven," he says aloud. "For as long as you choose to stay."

 

She follows Charles as he wheels himself into the kitchen, more alert than she wishes to be to the changes that have been made in the house. She cannot help but notice the ramps, the handlebars and the elevator doors in the hallway. Other changes are more subtle. The rooms are in an alarming state of disrepair that speaks of the same neglect as the overgrown gardens. Perhaps Charles has become careless over the years; the changes in his own attire certainly suggest as much. The brother she left was a prim and proper young professor who liked to underline his general importance to the world with impeccable suits and cardigans. She returned to find a bearded hippie in a wheelchair.

She must have been projecting some of her thoughts, because Charles looks around to give her a sheepish grin.

"I'm afraid I haven't been the most ardent housekeeper," he admits. "But Hank and I have been busy these few weeks. At least we managed to air the rooms properly and make a few repairs... We should be able to re-open the school this fall."

"That's good to hear," she says politely, and the problem about talking to telepaths is that they will know when you're just being polite even when they make an effort to stay out of your head. She doesn't miss her brother's flinch as he turns away and she sighs inwardly. He probably heard that, too.

Hank is trailing silently behind her, just far enough to stay out of her field of vision. She stares ahead and ignores him.

 

"Just gathering information, you say?"

Charles leans his elbows on the table and stirs his tea, milk and two sugars, just as he always liked it. She fiddles with her own cup.

"So far," she says with a frown. "I think. I can't be sure, but it's all I found. But the information is very detailed, and that worries me."

"It implies a purpose." Charles nods. "Trask just wanted mutants, dead or alive, no matter what the mutation was. But this suggests some sort of plan."

"Yes, and there's something else." She pauses, trying to put a finger on it. "The mutations were not… random. They were physical mutations mostly, and they were classified by their usefulness. Powerful mutations. No one with just coloured skin or spikes on their back." She takes a deep breath and turns to Hank. "You were in there as well. That's why I'm here."

He looks up at that and truly meets her eyes for the first time since she arrived. There is surprise in his gaze and also a different emotion she cannot read. He frowns.

"I'm not useful," he says coolly. "I'm with Charles. Whoever may be watching us must know that I won't defect."

"Perhaps they don't mean to give you a choice," Charles interjects, looking worried. "This is bad news. Thanks for the warning, Raven."

She nods and chews on her bottom lip.

"Anything you're going to do about it?" she demands. "Or, you know, about Erik?"

"I'm not going to discuss Erik." Even from the distance she can feel the echo of his mental shields slamming into place. "And no-one gets to Hank if I have a say in it. As to the rest… This requires some consideration. I have a bad feeling about it."

He turns his chair to leave the kitchen.

"If you'll excuse me for a while? I need a bit of time to think. Help yourself to the fridge if you're hungry, and your room is at your disposal. We haven’t changed anything about it."

She ignores the sharp spike of guilt and looks at Hank, who is still watching her with a very strange expression.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "I didn't think you'd do something like that."

"You're welcome," she tells him, which is the most uncreative thing she could possibly have said, and then she flees the room. 

 

The evening is nothing short of painful. They are gathered in the living room to have a drink and a chat, because that's what you're supposed to do when someone is visiting. Charles drinks water and she wonders if he is actually trying to become a saint; she cannot remember a time when he ever rejected a nightcap. At least he is attempting to socialize while Hank drinks nothing at all and hardly speaks a word. Perhaps she should not be surprised; it has been ten years since she fell in love with him, and they hurt each other in more ways than one. She wasn't sure what she expected of their reunion, but she admits to herself now that she did not expect this.

Charles, on the other hand, has slipped into the guise of a most charming host, and she is one of the very few people on whom it is wasted. She knows he is putting up a front, and he knows that she knows it. Still he talks animatedly about his big plans for the school as though there weren't more urgent matters to face, and he has not even deemed it necessary to tell her what he thinks about the information she brought him.

He acts as if there were not a double betrayal and ten years of silence separating them, pretends he is not hurt by the fact that he makes her uncomfortable, although she knows that he is. And he is always hopeful, always kind, even though he _can't walk_ , and he still wants to make his peace with the world and with _her_ as if nothing had changed. But she can't, and she won't, and she wants to run away from this haunted house that screams its accusations at her with every step and her perfect brother who thinks he is Peter Pan in a bloody wheelchair, and her - and Hank, who used to be so brilliant and beautiful and now has forgotten how to smile.

It was a mistake to come here, she thinks grimly. A call would have been enough. 

Charles' gaze meets hers just as she has formed the thought and the pained look in his eyes makes her cheeks burn with shame, and then with anger.

"Don't read my mind," she snaps harsher than she intended to. He purses his lips and looks away. "I didn't," he says evenly, but she can tell from tension in his voice that she hurt him again.

Suddenly she cannot bear to be in the same room with him a moment longer. "I'm tired," she informs him and rises from her chair. "I'm going to bed."

Charles sighs, but he still won't get angry. "Good night," he tells her with a tight little smile. Hank glares at her and says nothing.

She will not remain in this house a minute longer than she has to.

 

Her original plan was to take a taxi to the train station early the next morning, but Charles insists on giving her a lift. "We have some errands to run," he tells her in a voice that brooks no argument. "I've been taking regular physiotherapy sessions since… well, nearly being crushed by a concrete pillar didn't do my spine any favours." He winces. "And we're planning to do some grocery shopping afterwards. The station is no detour at all."

There is no way to refuse his offer without looking childish, so she endures Hank's silence and Charles' forced cheerfulness for another hour until they finally arrive at her destination. Hank stops the car by the roadside and gives her a terse smile that tells her clearly what he thinks of her hasty departure. It does not matter, she decides angrily, because he has no right to judge her, and if he wants to live with Charles in their nice little bubble of righteousness and naïve optimism, he may do as he pleases. Charles opens his door as she gets out and reaches for her hand.

"Goodbye, Raven," he says, and she hardens her heart against the way his eyes look sad although he smiles. "You know you're always welcome with us. Even if you don't stay long."

"I know," she tells him and gives his hand a squeeze. Then she turns and walks away without a backward glance, away from her old life, from the ghosts of her past that will find her and haunt her however far she runs, and back to a mission that helps her make a difference.

 

She has not even reached the building when behind her a loud crash disrupts the regular noise of the street. There is a scream that makes her blood run cold, and it is _inside her head,_ and then it breaks off.

For a moment she is blinded by a surge of raw panic. As she whirls around she sees a commotion down the street, people running and shouting and a truck that seems to block the street and beside it a blur of shiny red metal, too far away to see clearly.

She clutches her bags and breaks into a run.

 

The Beast is howling and raging as she gets there, trying to rip the battered roof off Charles' car without a single thought for his own safety. _He shouldn't,_ she thinks desperately, _everyone can see,_ and then nothing but _Charles, Charles, Charles._

"Hank!" she screams, but he gives no sign that he hears her as he tears a large part of metal right out of the wreck. Inside her brother's figure is slumped on the passenger's seat and there is blood everywhere, on the window, on the seats, on the splintered glass that covers the debris.

She is no stranger to the sight of blood but now a wave of nausea hits her, and for the first time since Cuba her knees nearly give out. Her fingers dig into Hank's arm as she chants "keep calm, keep calm" like a mantra, not sure if she means him or herself. But the sight of his injured friend seems to sober Beast, and he lifts Charles out of the wreckage with a gentleness she didn't know he possessed.

The ambulance arrives a few minutes later, closely followed by four police officers brandishing their weapons in search of a rampart blue ape-man. They talk briefly to the bystanders before they turn to gape at Hank, who is now once again brown-haired and skinny and even paler than usual. Blood trickles from a shallow gash on his forehead, but otherwise he seems unharmed.

"I'm a doctor," he snaps at them. "I gave first aid to my friend. You can question me if you like, but you'd better find out why that truck changed direction and hit us right in our own lane."

"It just turned all on its own." The truck driver is a burly, dark-haired man with a ponytail and a peace sign on his cap. He looks shaken. "I swear I didn't do anything. It was like someone ripped the steering wheel out of my hands and turned it, and then there was this car." He shrugs helplessly. "I'm sorry, gents. I'm so sorry."

Hank meets Mystique's gaze, and for the first time in a decade she knows that they are thinking the same. It is not a pleasant thought.

 

The day seems to drag endlessly. They spend hours in a nondescriptive police office that makes her nervous by experience, and each undergo a lengthy separate questioning before they are released. The officers assure them that they are merely considered witnesses and have no legal trouble on their heels. They should probably be grateful, she muses bitterly, that Hank's true appearance alone was not enough to earn them a night in prison. Charles' blue-eyed optimism cannot change the realities of a world that still views mutants with distrust and scorn.

Hank is pale and tense on their taxi ride to the hospital, and her own thoughts are a maelstrom of fear and anger, so they do not talk more than they have to. But at least they are allowed to see Charles immediately when she identifies herself as his sister, and although he is still unconscious, the friendly young doctor assures them that there is no need to worry. He escaped with a concussion, three broken ribs and a few bruises and flesh wounds, which makes him comparatively lucky. Hank and Mystique both watch over his sleep for several hours until the world outside the hospital window has turned dark and the nurse tells them in friendly but unmistakable terms that her patient needs to be left alone.

Hank shuffles his feet and tells her that he will take a taxi back to the mansion. That should be the end of it, she knows; she will remain at the hospital in the guise of a nurse, because she will not leave Charles alone for the night right after someone attempted to murder him. But for some reason she herself is not quite sure about, she promises Hank that she will join him as soon as she can.

 

Charles wakes the next morning shortly before dawn, and the happiness that passes over his face as his mind touches hers is stunning. But then she catches a vague memory through his weakened shields, the echo of another awakening, another hospital room, of pain in the back and the sheer terror of not sensing anything below the waist and agonizing loss because they're gone, gone, gone...

_Stop it,_ she thinks as loudly as she can. _I'm here. It's over, you're safe._

_Stay,_ he returns sleepily before he drifts off again.

She tries very hard to ignore the bile that rises in her throat.

 

Charles sends her back to the mansion after breakfast. He is much more alert and immediately realizes that she has not slept at all during her watch, so he insists in his usual uncompromising manner that she should allow herself some hours of rest and a good meal. Hank looks vaguely surprised as he lets her in, but they do not talk much before she retreats to her room and throws herself on the bed, too exhausted to brood over the events that led her back here.

It is mid afternoon when she wakes with a much clearer head and in desperate need of a shower. There is not much time to indulge in it; they have serious matters to discuss, matters Charles refused to face that have now caught up with him. She finds Hank in his lab, where he is leafing through a large stack of notes.

"Cerebro," he says by way of greeting. "That must be why Erik attacked him. He knows Charles can find him with Cerebro now that he has lost the helmet, he could get in the way…" He slams a folder on the table in frustration. "I never thought he'd do it," he growls. "I know he's an asshole, but _Charles,_ I thought…"

He breaks off and meets Mystique's gaze. She shrugs.

"He tried to kill me," she points out. "And you as well."

"Yes, but we're not Charles." Hank takes off his glasses and buries his face in his hands. Then he peeks at her through his fingers. "Why are you here?"

"I'm going to help."

"Is that so." He smiles bitterly. "Yesterday you couldn't be gone fast enough."

"I didn't..." She flounders, and her shame turns into anger as it always does. "I'm not a monster, Hank. Did you think I'd just walk off?"

"Wouldn't have been the first time."

"That was ten years ago, and he sent me away!"

"You could have told him to stuff it, but... Ten years. You didn't even call once. You've no idea what it was like..." He breaks off. His face is twitching in a way that does not bode well. She is overcome by a strange feeling of foreboding, as if something is deeply wrong and she has not even scratched the surface.

"You mean what - you and Charles hanging out in the mansion while others were risking their lives for the cause?" she says defiantly.

Hank turns away and breathes slowly, and she understands in a flash that he is struggling to keep his mutation under control.

"No," he says tightly without looking at her. "Being cooped up in this damned house and not able to do anything while my _paralyzed_ best friend was frying his brain with booze and his sister didn't give a damn. You could have helped. You could have dragged him out of it. But I..." 

He breaks off and squeezes his eyes shut. Mystique stares at him, reluctant to let her brain catch up with the things he said.

"I don't believe you," she says doggedly. "Charles would never."

Hank's laugh sounds hysterical. "Why do you think we had to air the rooms?" he demands. "Does this place look normal to you? He's been sober for a month now, since... since Paris and Washington. He's been doing well, I hope it lasts."

For a moment there is only the sound of her own breathing that rings loudly in her ears. Unwanted memories flood her brain, images of hidden bottles and smeared make-up and the stench of whisky in Mother's breath as she turned away from her children in disgust. "She doesn't mean it," Charles had told her again and again, "it's just because she drinks," and then he had taken her hand and led her away to their secret hideout in the garden where they could play and pretend that the world was kind to them. 

He had protected her then, as he always protected her, even later when he failed to see that she was growing up and perfectly capable of protecting herself. She had to free herself from his influence at some point, and she had done so by running away. There was just one thing that never occurred to her before, and it hits her now like a fist in the guts.

_She_ should have protected _him_. She should have looked out for him and offered her support. That's what siblings do for each other.

"Excuse me," she mutters and turns and flees to the bathroom where she locks herself in, and she leans over the sink to splash her face with cold water that cannot wash her tears away.

 

Hank is preparing tea in the kitchen when she returns. He makes no comment, but instead points his head towards the table. "Read the paper," he says. "Page two, bottom article."

Page two is already opened, and the headline catches her attention immediately. _Magneto strikes again,_ it reads, and in smaller print, _Assassination attempt on human-friendly mutant intellectual._

She puts the paper down with a sigh.

"We need to find him," she announces. 

"Of course, but right now I can't see how." Hank sounds annoyed. "We know he was in town yesterday, but that's all we have. We could use Cerebro if Charles was here, but like this…" He takes two mugs from the cupboard and puts them on the table with more force than necessary.

"I've tracked people before," she says thoughtfully. "We must find out if he has some sort of… headquarters? It's only been a month, he didn't have much time to get organized."

Hank frowns and turns to fetch the teapot, but he is interrupted by the loud ringing of the doorbell.

 

Mystique shifts smoothly into her favourite human form as she follows Hank into the hall, but he stops in his tracks so violently that she almost runs into him.

The front doors are already wide open. Leaning in the doorway with a thoroughly pissed-off expression on his face is Erik Lehnsherr, master of magnetism and most wanted criminal in the United States. 

Hank's claws begin to sprout instantly, but Mystique catches his arm. "Wait," she tells him before he can lunge at Erik's throat. 

Erik's eyebrows shoot up. "Mystique. I did not expect to see you here."

"Not your business, Erik," she snaps. "What do you want?"

"We'd better discuss that indoors."

Hank controls his appearance with visible effort, but his skin has taken on a bluish hue. "The only thing we can _discuss,_ " he snarls, "is whether you want to go back to your prison cell or take off to South America. Charles would want me to give you a choice, otherwise I wouldn't."

"Don't overestimate yourself, Beast," Erik sneers, and Mystique steps between them before a blue fist can grab his throat. 

"I said," she hisses with mounting fury, _"What do you want?"_

"The same as you, I hope," Erik returns angrily. "Find out who tried to kill Charles and make sure they don't do it again."

There is a moment of speechless silence.

"The perpetrator of these crimes didn't exactly try to keep his identity a secret," Hank growls, but Erik shakes his head.

"On the contrary." His hand clenches in agitation. "It wasn't me. Someone's using my methods and so far I had no reason to interfere. I thought..." He grits his teeth. "I didn't think they'd target Charles."

"And you expect us to believe that?" 

"I do." Hank has changed back into his human form and stares at Erik as though he is thinking hard. "It actually makes more sense this way. I was wondering... but yes, of course." He gives Erik a cold look. "That doesn't mean I want you here."

"Why don't you make me leave?"

"Now, wait a minute." Mystique is still standing between them, looking from one to the other. This is going rather too fast. "Erik, the truck moved on its own account. Care to explain that?"

"How should I know?" Erik snaps. "And why does everyone believe what the driver tells them? I'm being framed for this entire series of crimes and I really couldn't care less, but I know it's deliberate and now they've hurt Charles." He gives them a dark look. "Big mistake."

Hank's eyes narrow. He seems utterly unimpressed by Erik's bravado.

"You might be of use, but I doubt we'll like your methods."

"Oh, won't you?" Erik looks at Mystique with a smile that makes her uncomfortable. "You agree with him?"

"I don't trust you," she informs him stiffly. "But this is about Charles, Hank. Let's hear him out."

Hank looks like he is about to argue, but then he shrugs and gestures for Erik to come in. The look that passes between the two men could freeze a tropic river.

"What a lovely team you make," Erik mutters, and it takes her a moment to make sense of the pure bitterness in his voice. It is not, she reasons as they follow Hank into the kitchen, that he does not care about her, about Charles or the wonderful time they had here in this house ten years ago, those whirlwind weeks when the world seemed to be for them to shape anew. He sees what has become of them all, and he must know that much of it is his own doing, or would have been in his power to prevent. He did not want to leave Charles paralyzed on a beach. He did not want to kill her in his own twisted attempt to save the world. But the dangerous thing about Erik is that he will do whatever he deems necessary in pursuit of his cause, even if it breaks his own heart, assuming that he has one. He is absolutely ruthless towards the word but just as much towards himself, and no one can ever be safe in his company because he will always be driven by his purpose, and never be swayed by sympathy and understanding.

At least the relationship between Hank and Erik is uncomplicated, she acknowledges with a sigh. They loathe each other, plain and simple. She wishes she could hate Erik as well, but she cannot.

 

"He says that someone is framing him?"

Charles leans back against his pillow and frowns. His face is pale beneath the bandage around his head, but the bright blue eyes are as sharp as ever. 

"It makes sense." Hank stuffs his hands into his pockets. Mystique gets the distinct impression that he is not quite comfortable in his skin. "The others, I could believe. But not you."

Charles glares at him. Hank's lips become a thin line. It seems that Erik is a forbidden topic in this household. 

"He wants to help us find out who did it," Mystique interjects. "To deal with them in his own way, I suppose, but we could use some help."

"It seems that Erik is not the only one who wants a war," Charles says thoughtfully. "These murders were designed to turn the public opinion against mutants. Someone wants to fuel the hatred... or to demonstrate power. The question is, which side are they on?"

"It they're on a side at all." Hank stares blankly at the wall. "Sometimes war is started for economic reasons. Perhaps someone wants to sell weapons. Now that there's peace in Vietnam..."

Charles nods and winces immediately. Hank and Mystique exchange an uncomfortable look, and Charles frowns. "I'm fine," he snaps before he leans back and closes his eyes. "Where is he now?"

"Sulking outside your window," she provides helpfully. He shoots her a dirty look and she is tempted to stick her tongue out. Now this she recognizes, the banter and familiarity, and she likes him a lot better when he is not attempting to be mutant Jesus.

"Well, he is," she defends herself. "You know how he gets. He's staying the night too, well within your telepathic range. Apparently we're not qualified to provide satisfactory protection."

"Tell him to shove off," Charles says wearily, but she will do nothing of the kind because she is actually quite relieved that someone else is going to take the night watch. She may not trust Erik, but in this she admits that Hank is right; he will not let anyone get to Charles.


	2. Chapter 2

It is already dark outside when Hank and Mystique return to the mansion. They spent several hours by Charles' bedside, weighing options and trying to come up with brilliant ideas, but eventually they were shooed out by the nurse and this time she was happy to comply. It is not, she muses as she rubs her hands against the chill of early spring while Hank is opening the front door, that she thinks of the mansion as home again; but a night in a comfortable bed will help them all sort their thoughts, and surely tomorrow they can come up with a decent plan.

"I'm going to make hot chocolate," Hank informs her as he switches on the lights and heads for the kitchen. This is another thing that has not changed; the kitchen was often the place to warm up when they had come in from the cold outside, even if it was Charles who would make them hot chocolate and not Mother. She had learned that quickly enough. The hot chocolate, in any case, still seems to be a living tradition.

"Coming." She shifts into her blue form and follows him, and then she nearly runs into him for the second time this day.

Two men are sitting in the half-light at the kitchen table. They are dressed in practical dark clothes and muddy shoes. One of them has a revolver pointed right at Hank's forehead.

"Good evening, Dr. McCoy," he says pleasantly. "Sorry to disturb your quality time with your lady friend. We meant to talk to you alone, but it doesn't really matter."

Hank draws a deep breath, and the man waves his weapon. "Don't even think of it," he advises. "As far as I know, you're not the one who can control metal. So you'll both come along quietly, or we will make you."

Mystique understands in a flash that the man knows what he is talking about. He is dark-haired and middle-aged and speaks with a calm that suggests experience. Also, in spite of his casual clothing, there is a certain tension in his bearing that she has often seen in soldiers. The other is younger and watches them with keen dark eyes. Surely he is armed as well. When she hears a noise behind them and sees a third man step up, she knows they are in real trouble.

Hank notices it as well, and it is obvious that he has to fight to restrain Beast. "What do you want?" he growls.

"Someone wants to talk to you." The man with the gun smiles unpleasantly. "Among other things. You're useful, they say. If your blue lady is the shapeshifter we saw on TV, she may be useful too." He rises and gestures with his weapon. "Get going." 

 

They never stand a chance, even as they are shooed into the back of a van and someone approaches them with syringes that very much resemble those she saw in the hands of Stryker's men in Vietnam. It would be easy to physically overpower the man who administers them, but with three revolvers trained on them from a short distance, resistance would equal suicide. The substance makes her irresistibly weary, and she does not even have time to consider the way her own head sinks against Hank's shoulder before she drifts off.

She has no idea how long she is out, but she awakes in a sparsely furnitured room with no windows and bleak white walls. Hank is still dozing on the floor beside her, and the first thing she notices is that he is in his mutant form, although she didn't even know he could change in his sleep. She runs a hand through his blue fur and checks his breathing, but it seems regular, so she begins to explore her surroundings. There is not much to find. A small bathroom and a locked door, a bed, and a table without chairs. Not much to work with when it comes to escapes, especially since they have no idea where they are.

Hank stirs with a groan and she crouches beside him because there is not much else to do.

"Are you allright?"

He nods and sits up, looks at his clawed hands, and swears quietly.

"What is it?"

"The serum has worn off." He frowns. "That means it has been at least two days. Charles will have noticed by now." Golden eyes meet hers, and he seems to notice her bewilderment. His grim smile exposes deadly fangs. "You know this is my natural appearance, right? Ever since… you remember. You were the one who told me that this is who I am supposed to be."

"And I don't mind at all," she assures him, which is true because she finds him rather stunning this way. "But what about a serum?"

"The serum I use to control my mutation." He looks away. "It's the only way to switch between my two forms. Without it I'll constantly look like this. Not that it matters."

"It doesn't, but…" she starts, before she is interrupted by the sound of a key turning in a lock. Beast is on his feet in an instant, moving with inhuman grace and tense as bowstring, but the man in the door is holding a revolver and even she could never move fast enough to disarm him.

"The boss wants to see you," the man informs them, and they are walked through sparse white corridors by four armed guards in uniforms Mystique has never seen before. She can see Hank's gaze darting through the rooms; he is constantly scanning their surroundings, waiting for the slightest chance to strike a successful attack, but their captors are well prepared. Together the two of them are near invincible in hand-to-hand combat, but against long-range weapons they are powerless.

They are led to a spacious room that appears to be a study. Bookshelves and cupboards are lining the walls, and the large window offers an idyllic view into a forest clearing. Ground floor, Mystique notes absently. That may be useful. But right now her attention is captured by another fact.

Behind the oak desk in the middle of the room sits Major William Stryker.

She swears softly, and his pale grey eyes narrow in recognition.

"Well, well. It's a small world," he says instead of a greeting. "I was hoping to have a private conversation with Dr. McCoy. You always turn up where you're least expected."

She clenches her jaw and does not answer. Hank watches them in silence, his strange golden eyes calm and calculating. He reminds her of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"Now, I'm sure your presence here can be of use," Stryker continues coolly. "Good afternoon, Doctor. Major William Stryker, I am in charge of this facility. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but you'll understand that I can't take any risks before I'm sure you will cooperate."

Hank crosses his arms and scowls at him.

"I am given to understand that you are a very resourceful person." Stryker smiles unpleasantly and points at some leaflets on his desk. "CIA reports mention several revolutionary high-tech developments that are accredited to you. They say nothing about the recent years, but we found out that you have since acquired a medical degree as well." He waits for a moment, and when no answer is forthcoming, he adds: "The project we are working on contains highly sensitive research, and a brain like yours would be… highly useful. We can make you an attractive offer."

"I don't want money." Hank's sneer clearly shows his fangs, but Stryker does not seem impressed. "If this was just a clean research project, you'd have knocked at my door and asked. But since you had to abduct and imprison us to make me listen, I'm sure it's something I won't like."

"It might not apply to your… moral values. At first." Stryker retrieves a thick folder from his desk drawer and places both hands on top of it. "You'll understand that the information I am about to give you is not something I can allow to leak."

"I am not interested."

"But we are." Stryker pats the folder. "In the recent years there have been developments to… let us say, improve the military resources of our country in ways you have no idea about. I will not bore you with the details, but you should know that our current project is a direct continuation of these efforts. In a way, it was you and your companions who first alerted us to the fascinating possibilities that your species offers for our field of interest. A mutant who can look like anyone she chooses. A mutant who can lift submarines and baseball stadiums. A mutant with superhuman strength and agility." 

He leans back into his chair and folds his hands.

"Dr. Trask studied mutants because he wanted to fight them. We say that this is a shocking waste of potential. We study mutants so we can let them fight for us."

"You want us to be your soldiers?" Mystique demands incredulously.

"No," Stryker says coolly. "We want you to be our weapons."

 

The monstrosity of that statement makes them both speechless. The major smiles, visibly pleased about the obvious effect of his words. 

"There are ways to… encourage cooperation," he continues, "as you will both learn if you do not comply willingly. If there really is no other way, a person's will is breakable, their morals can be undermined, their identity can be taken away. But that is only where it starts, and that is why we would be happy to have you on board, Doctor."

Hank is still staring at him in horrified silence.

"We are working on ways to enhance mutant powers," the major tells them pleasantly. "Like drugs that enhance perception and strength, or armor that makes optimal use of the respective gifts. There is new research on ways to make your very bones near indestructible! Does that not sound like a fascinating field of work?"

"It sounds," Hank says very slowly, as if he cannot believe his own words, "like Magneto was more right than I have ever given him credit for."

"He is a dangerous man," Stryker admits thoughtfully. "He must be taken care of eventually, but right now we can use him to our advantage. A project like this cannot be conducted in a mutant-friendly environment. Questions would be asked. You cannot make people disappear if they're a Human Rights issue. Magneto is playing into our hands."

Mystique breathes deeply as the pieces of the puzzles fall into place.

"Unlike others, right? Unlike Bolivar Trask. Unlike Charles Xavier."

"Trask was unfortunate but necessary." Stryker shrugs. "The obvious target for a murderous mutant. Xavier and his human-mutant diplomacy ideas need to go, but for now he's out of the picture. It's playing out reasonably well so far."

He leans his elbows on the table and smiles at Hank.

"It looks like you will need some time to think about it, Doctor."

"Absolutely not," Hank growls. "I want no part of this."

"But we can make you."

"Then make me."

Stryker nods. "We will, if it comes to that." He gestures toward the guards who are still waiting at the door. "You have some time to reconsider your decision. I am a busy man, you understand, but you'll hear from us tomorrow."

With that they are taken back into their prison, although Mystique briefly considers making a desperate break for freedom; but if they are killed now, no word of this horror will reach the world outside.

 

The rest of the day passes mostly in silence, and the night as well although neither of them gets much sleep. In the morning they decide to rally themselves and try to make plans, but there is no way around the fact that they have very limited options.

"The worst thing is," Hank tells her dejectedly after they have discarded yet another useless idea, "that I truly am exactly the man they want. I know there are ways to achieve their aims. If they could use my knowledge…"

She nods. "The serum you use to control your mutation. You already know how to modify powers."

"Yes." He frowns. "The serum is dangerous, if not used correctly."

He is clearly avoiding her eyes now, and suddenly she gets the strong impression that he does not say all there is to say.

"You're speaking from experience," she assumes cautiously. "Do you mean your own… transformation?"

"Yes, and…" He pauses, and she waits patiently. "Well, you're bound to hear about it," he continues eventually. His voice sounds rougher than it usually does even in his mutant form. "I developed a cure for Charles, so he could walk. It was based on the serum, and it took his powers away. He… craved it. Far too much."

She feels a chill running down her spine. She thought she had already seen all there was to see, understood the whole depths of misery that was inflicted on these two men she cares so much about, but she was very wrong. It was no blissful Neverland they had lived in; it was their own private hell.

"I tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn't listen." Hank's hands are clenching into his shirt now, leaving ragged tears, and he looks anywhere but at her. "He just refused, and I... I remembered what it was like before he had it, he didn't sleep, he didn't eat properly, his control was slipping, he was constantly projecting his negative emotions all over the place, pain, fury, despair..." Hank closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. "It was too much. For both of us. So I guess I just..." He breaks off. "It took a stranger to get him back on the right track again."

Mystique listens quietly, tortured with guilt, and she needs no psychic powers to feel Hank's own shame in the face of what he perceives as a bitter failure.

"You kept him alive," she says softly. "You were there for him and made sure he wasn't alone. You showed him that you cared. You're the only one of us who helped him."

"But it wasn't enough."

"Is that what he thinks?"

Hank shakes his head without opening his eyes. He looks utterly miserable.

"Listen now..." She sighs and places a hand on his arm. "You did well. Charles is not an easy man to live with. I couldn't even..." She shrugs. "That's why I ran away, and... you stayed."

"There were times I nearly left." Hank's voice is no more than a broken whisper, and she wants to hold him and protect him from heartbreak and self-doubt and telepaths with a tendency to form codependent relationships.

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't. He's my friend, and I love him. Not like...," he makes a vague gesture with his hand, "but I love him. I can't stand to see him hurt."

"I know," she says very softly and laces her own blue fingers with his large, clawed ones. "I love him too."

 

They remain like that for a long while, sitting side by side on the floor with their hands entwined. It will take some time to come to terms with this, she ponders, and she will never be able to go back to the tough but simple life she led just a week ago. Perhaps it was a mistake to come back, after all. But now that she is forced to face the wreckage she left behind, she feels strangely relieved. Too much energy has been wasted on avoidance, on useless justifications and defiant denial. It feels like a festering wound that was torn open again, and though the cleaning is painful, it may give all of them the chance to heal.

But first they need to survive whatever Stryker has planned for them.

It is difficult to keep track of time in their windowless prison, but no more than an hour can have passed when Hank suddenly freezes, turns his head sharply towards the door, and rises in one fluid motion. His animalistic senses are sharper than her own, so she jumps to her feet in alarm. "What is it?"

"Noise." He tilts his head. "Something's happening."

She frowns and waits, anxious not to disturb his hearing. Every fiber in her body signals combat state, and she hopes fervently that whatever is happening now, it does not mean they are coming for him. Perhaps there is another kind of disruption, one they can use to their own advantage.

Hank frowns and shakes his head, and then she also hears the footsteps in the corridor outside. He touches her arm briefly without turning his eyes from the door, and she steels herself. She won't let him go without a fight. If they take him away now, she does not know if she will ever see him again.

The door bends in its hinges, vibrates a few times, and hits the wall to the side with a loud crash. 

Erik is standing in the doorway. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his fancy leather jacket and looks very much pleased with himself.

For a moment she is tempted to forgive him all his sins and kiss the smug grin off his face, but she restrains herself. "Good timing," she tells him with a sigh of relief.

"Glad to be of service."

"Never thought I'd be happy to see you," Hank admits gruffly. "How did you find us?"

"A common friend used some questionable means to get himself released from hospital." Erik taps a finger against his temple. "He convinced the doctors he had a personal physician who takes care of him. He neglected to mention that said physician was currently missing."

"Oh no, he can't be..." Hank grits his teeth. "And then what? He used Cerebro? He's still recovering from a concussion, what the hell is he thinking?"

Erik shrugs. "Charles is royally pissed off," he explains. "He told me he'd never speak to me again if I return without you. So can we get going?"

 

Their steps echo in the empty corridor and Mystique strains her senses, ready to fight the moment someone turns around the corner and points a gun at them. But there is no sound beside their own footsteps.

"Did you kill them all?" she hisses angrily. She is not a merciful person but Erik's cavalier attitude to killing is just plain disgusting.

"No need." Erik smiles grimly and opens the door to one of the side rooms. Inside two men are playing cards at a small table. One of them is about to slam an ace on the table, his features frozen in a triumphant grin. The other is wearing an impassive poker face. Neither of them moves a muscle.

Hank groans loudly.

"Has he absolutely lost his mind? He should be in a _hospital_..."

"I threatened to chain him to the bed." Erik grins darkly. "He threatened to make me believe I am Tinker Bell. You try antagonizing him when he's having a hissy fit."

He strides forward without another word, but Mystique catches Hank's arm.

"We need something tangible," she says urgently. "Something to expose them."

"We need to get out of here," he protests, but she shakes her head.

"I know, but they'll come after you. The office, quick." 

She sprints along the corridor and skids around the corner with Hank and Erik on her heels. The door to Stryker's office is unlocked and the man himself is sitting at the desk, frozen in the act of leafing through a file folder with a cup of coffee lifted half-way to his mouth. Mystique grabs the folder from under his nose while Hank begins to search through the technical equipment beside Stryker's desk.

_Whatever you're doing in there, hurry up,_ Charles' voice echoes in her thoughts. _This is getting rather taxing_.

She knows that Charles' little feat is a scary demonstration of power and highly inadvisable in his current state, but she must trust him to hold out a little longer.

_One moment,_ she urges and turns towards the bookshelf. It is hopeless to make sense of it; there are multiple books and folders, and there is not even enough time to read the titles. One of the folders shoots through the air and into Erik's hand. He waves it in her direction so she can read the word **correspondence** printed on its back. 

"That should do," he snaps. "Now let's go."

_Yes, please._ Charles' mental voice sounds strained. _Hurry._

 

They run along the corridors and burst through the front door in a mad rush and without a second glance at the immobile figures they pass on their way. A wave of Erik's arm crushes the cars that are parked in front of the building. Then he leads them onto a narrow path that disappears behind a few bushes, and just a few yards further they find a grey Chrysler parked in the middle of the road. Charles is sitting on the passenger's seat, one hand pressed against his sweating temple. 

"About time," he gasps as Hank and Mystique scramble into the rear seats. Erik starts the engine with a roar, turns the vehicle with a completely unnecessary flourish and slams his foot on the gas. The car bursts through the bushes and dashes along the road at breakneck speed.

"Don't kill us all," Hank grouses, and at the same time Charles says "No pursuit so far," before his eyes close and his head lolls to the side.

 

They drive all through the night and the entire next day without interruption, save for a few short stops at the gasoline. Charles slips into and out of consciousness while the others take turns in the driver's seat, but they do not run into any trouble, and on the evening of the second day Hank threatens to take the car apart if they do not get a hotel room and make sure that Charles sleeps in a comfortable bed. They find a small roadside motel and rent two rooms to appear less suspicious, though they will only use one and take watch in turns. Hank looks human again and Charles effectively diverts the landlord's attention away from the fact that the man with the sunglasses and the three-day beard is one of the world's most wanted terrorists, but they still need to be careful and they cannot be sure how far Stryker's arm reaches.

The atmosphere in the shabby little room is tense as they eat some greasy takeaway and exchange the most important news. It turns out that Charles and Erik took a plane for the first part of their journey, though not the private jet because neither of them can fly it. They rent the Chrysler in Vancouver with the option to return it in New York. All they have to do now is to return there safely.

None of them talk much beyond that. Charles is deeply exhausted and falls asleep as soon as Hank has seen to his medical needs. Erik is brooding by the window. He is in a particularly sour mood, Mystique notes, and wonders if that has something to do with the awkward tension that lingers between him and Charles like a tangible substance. They did not exchange one unnecessary word and studiously avoided each other's eyes, which probably means that the events in Paris and Washington are still looming over them, unresolved, like the proverbial elephant in the room.

Eventually Hank offers her a game of cards, and they ignore the uncomfortable silence and the sparse surroundings for an hour or two until it is time for bed. Hank insists on taking the sofa, which nearly leads to a fight until she decides that it really is not worth it, and Erik answers her suggestion to take the first watch with a glare, so she curls up in the remaining bed and finally gives in to sleep.

 

She wakes in the middle of the night, unsure of what startled her, but then she hears the soft creaking of a chair across the room and looks around. A figure is clearly visible beside Charles' bed. She feels a split-second rush of adrenaline but manages to withhold her reaction when she recognizes Erik's familiar shape. The pale light of a street lamp throws deep shadows on his face, making him look haggard and worn and older than he truly is. As he watches her sleeping brother, his eyes are filled with such terrible sadness that she nearly panics again. But then she realizes that Erik's hand is moving, and as her eyes adjust to the dim light, she sees that he is stroking Charles's hair, softly twining his fingers into it, caressing him with infinite tenderness that goes against everything Magneto is supposed to be.

It should come as a surprise, but now that she sees it, she feels like she has known for a very long time. But that does not mean she can make sense of it or decide how she feels about it, and for a long while she lies there in the shadowy half-light while sleep eludes her and thoughts are whirling in her head and beside her an amoral terrorist looks at her brother like he is the only thing in the world worth saving.

 

Another evening in a wayside hotel room later, Charles and Erik are engaged in a blazing row.

"You cannot mean this," Erik hisses, eyes shining brightly while the metal coat rack beside him rattles ominously. "You heard them! Tell me you know that we have to stop this madness."

"Of course I know." Charles' tone grows more chilly by the minute. "I'm not saying we'll let them continue. But you can't go and kill them all, Erik."

"Try me, why don't you."

"You are playing into their hands!" Charles slams a fist onto his bed sheet. "This is a political issue, Erik! We cannot turn the public opinion against us, they already think we're committing murder..."

"And with good reason," Erik snarls, and Charles clenches his jaw in frustration. "Seriously, Charles, it's been ten years and you're still naive..."

"But I'm not!" Charles is very nearly shouting now, and Hank looks anxiously towards the door. "It's up to us what they think of us, and I refuse to give in to criminals and terrorists!"

"You always hope for a better world, but open your eyes, Charles!"

"I gave up hope once," Charles says, suddenly with a dangerous calm. "It nearly destroyed me. Don't you tell me to do it again, Erik. Don't you dare."

Erik's eyes widen, and Mystique grabs Hank's elbow. "I don't think we're needed here," she prompts, because this discussion is not meant for them. "Fancy a drink in the lobby?"

They return an hour later to find the combatants brooding over a travel chess set that is placed on Charles' lap. Both he and Erik look tired and very serious, but they play in comfortable silence. Their eyes are firmly trained on the chessboard, and neither of them looks up when Hank and Mystique enter the room; but Erik is leaning so close that their shoulders are almost touching, and Charles' hand is resting lightly on top of Erik's.

 

They arrive at the mansion around noon-time on the following day. When they meet for breakfast early the next morning, Erik is gone. Mystique did not see him go, and she is slightly disappointed that he left without saying goodbye, but Charles does not seem bothered at all. He even asks her to take a stroll around the gardens with him, which is something they used to do when they were children and shared their dreams of a brighter future and could still race each other across the lawn.

She has not gotten used to the wheelchair. She does not believe she ever will. But Charles moves steadily beside her as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and the pale sunshine of early spring warms their faces and makes the first leaves on the maple trees shine in bright, fresh green. 

For the first time in ten years she feels almost peaceful.

"He had business to attend to," Charles answers the question that is lurking in the back of her mind. She glares at him, and he smiles ruefully. "Just a guess, I didn't peek," he assures. "I'm thinking about it too. But we talked, before he left. I'm not sure I'll like everything he does, but we agreed that it would be... beneficial to coordinate our attempts."

"Beneficial to your private affairs, brother mine," she says wryly, and he gives her a sheepish grin.

"That too."

"Did you forgive him?"

He sobers instantly.

"Not yet," he returns with a frown. "Cuba, maybe, after all these years, but when we broke him out of prison and he turned on us again..." He sighs. "I truly wish I could. But some things need time."

The silence between them is heavy with meaning, and she cannot bear it for long.

"What about me?" she asks quietly. "Have you forgiven me?"

He stops his chair and gazes up at her. It feels wrong to look down on him, but beneath the beard and the long hair and the wheelchair she recognizes his thoughtful expression and the bright, intelligent blue eyes.

"I don't know," he replies seriously. "I really want to. What about you?"

"Of course." She crouches before him and reaches for his hands, and his face lights up in a happy smile. "Let's not do it again, right?"

"Sounds like a plan."

They move on in silence, and she finds to her own surprise that she enjoys the bird song and the gentle breeze that caresses her skin.

"I can't stay long," she says after a while. "I'll wait until the news is out, but I want to act before they have time to reorganize. Now I know where they're hiding. They'll slip away as soon as they can."

"That's what Erik said."

"I thought I'd look for Logan. Hank tells me he's a resourceful guy. Couldn't get away fast enough after we saved his ass in Washington."

Charles grins. "Good luck. He's got some strong opinions, that one." He shoots her a sideway glance. "I know you like to act independently, but we could use an agent in the field."

"I don't want to be anybody's agent."

He averts his eyes, and she feels guilty again. Old habits die hard, it seems. They'll have to work on that.

"But," she concedes, "what do you think about a collaboration?"

A slow smile spreads over his face, and she knows that he gets her meaning. Charles is one of the smartest persons she has ever met. She can trust him to understand the difference.

"I would like that," he admits quietly. "I would like that very much."

 

Twenty-four hours later she waits in front of the mansion for Hank and Charles, bags in hand and ready to shift into her favourite disguise. The information about Stryker's project caused uproar in the country-wide media, and the discussion about mutant-phobia and Human Rights are more virulent than they were even after Washington, but she fears that in the middle of all the public outrage the culprits will quietly slip away and continue their work somewhere else. It was a setback, maybe, but not a defeat. The police are allegedly working on the case, but she would not swear that the CIA is not involved, and so she is going to continue her undercover work while Charles and Hank will analyze the papers and data files they managed to steal from Stryker's office.

It has only been a few days, but the smile on Hank's face as he steps to her side is almost as bright as it used to be. He waves the car keys in her direction.

"Charles will come down in a minute," he announces. "Good thing we still have the van. Less sexy, but more practical."

"Good to hear that."

The pause that follows her words is slightly too long, and Hank looks at her sideways.

"I'm glad you came," he admits. "I didn't think… but it was a good thing. I mean. Thank you."

So this is where they will start to act like love-struck teenagers, she thinks with amusement. She has never been good at partings, so she usually just walks away, but this time she is resolved to do better.

"Well," she offers with a smile. "I've been told we make a lovely team."

"Not by someone whose opinion I respect. But I suppose he got it right this time."

They share a grin, but she is surprised to feel the merest hint of protectiveness towards the man who tried to kill her and is still very much a loose cannon. "Don't be too harsh on him," she chides. "He helped to save us, after all."

"Yeah, because he didn't want to ruin the chance of ever getting into Charles' pants again," Hank returns drily. "Git."

"You don't think they are..."

"Not since Cuba," Hank replies, which says everything she didn't want to know about before, and she briefly considers chasing Erik to the end of the world and strangling him with her bare hands. "But you never know, with those two. They make their own rules."

"Do they?" She watches him for a moment, appreciating the way his brown hair shimmers in the sun, his dark blue eyes and high cheekbones and the shoulders that are surprisingly strong for his slender body. His human form does have its merits, she admits to herself, and perhaps she was a hypocrite when she blamed him for preferring it. She found peace with her own appearance when she realized that she had a choice. It would be unfair to deny him the same right.

She does not tell him any of this, but there is something else she must say, because he will not be the one to do it.

"What about us?" she asks softly. "Do we make our own rules too?"

He blushes to the roots of his hair and makes an elaborate show of cleaning his glasses.

"If you can tell me how you imagine that," he evades. "You'll be fighting your partisan war and I'll re-build the school with Charles. Not much common ground, is there?"

"Oh, please." She gives him a wicked grin. "If Magneto and Professor X can do it..."

"Point taken." His smile is just as nervous as it used to be when they were a pair of inexperienced youngsters and hopelessly smitten with each other. "Maybe you could drop by now and then when your cause can spare you."

"I will." She leans over to kiss his cheek, and he touches her arms for a moment in an awkward embrace. But then he cups her blue cheek in his hand, running his thumb gently over the scales as if he was trying to memorize them, the same features he had once claimed would never be deemed beautiful. He leans down to press a soft, chaste kiss on her lips, and she knows she would blush now if she was able to. 

Instead she smiles and brushes a strand of hair out of his face. "Take care, Hank. I mean it," and she looks at him seriously, "they may still come after you."

"I know. Charles and I will protect each other. And beyond that..." He shrugs. "It's good to know we're not alone in this."

"You aren't," she assures him. That, at least, she can promise. They will not move on as though nothing had happened; they still have guilt and pain and ideological differences looming between them. But for the first time in many years, she honestly believes that they can be united again. All of them, perhaps even Erik.

_I don't mean to intrude,_ says a cheerful voice inside her head, _but the van is ready. Do you want me to get something to read?_

Siblings are destined to ruin the moment. She should probably consider it as payback for certain occasions he definitely hasn't forgotten. But now it is pretty likely that she will get the chance for revenge in the not-so-distant future, and the knowledge makes her glow with happiness. 

"We're coming," she says aloud and takes Hank's hand.


End file.
